Photo copyright Gary Miller

I held in what I was feeling

I held it in because

I didn’t want to show you

I have trouble forgiving myself

because I keep forgetting

that I am only human

I am only one person

I cannot do it all

Sometimes I can’t do anything

I’m at a loss

I don’t know what to say

I forgive myself

for that time when…

for every time when.

I forgive you

     I forgive you

          I forgive you

I say, as I stand

in front of the mirror

Then I smile

as I walk away

because I’ve finally

forgiven myself for that time when…

Technically he had never done this before, but how hard could it be.

You like a girl who lives in Colorado. She’s invited you to stay with her.

You bartend. I’m pretty sure there are bars everywhere.

You’ve been saying you are going to get out of NJ since high school. Do you really want to be one of those people who can’t live anywhere else because you’re afraid you won’t know how to make a bagel?

Step 1- The decision to leave.

Step 2- Put stuff in car.

Step 3- Look at a map; find Colorado.

Step 4- “Oh, it’s over there.”

Step 5- Go there.

And so began a new life. I was only 22 at the time. I’ve had many unique experiences, learned so much. But perhaps the most important thing I’ve learned is that it’s true, nobody knows how to make a bagel. Jesus Christ, you can’t just put a hole in a piece of bread and call it a bagel, that’s fucking bullshit.

Photo copyright 2015 Gary Miller

Otis had been having a difficult time at work lately. His memory was shot and his concentration seemed poor, too. Alone in the break room he sat scratching at his white beard that appeared almost fluorescent, bouncing off the black old coal contrast of his face.

It wasn't what you'd think, he wasn't forgetful. He remembered all right. He just couldn't quite recall where or what the memory was from, exactly.

"Otis! Man, break's over".
" Huh?" "Oh. Yeah, I'm comin'".

He'd gotten genuinely lost in thought there for a minute, which was something he was ashamed to admit. Otis wasn't one for philosophical introspection or existentialism. In fact, he actually took pride in his ability to not over-think or dwell on too much of anything in particular. Otis Hassan, now sixty four years old, led a simple and practical life. He'd been working in the same factory plant floor most of his better years, always refusing offers for a higher-up position. Otis dealt with the here and now, hard work comforted him.

Originally from New Orleans, he moved his family up the coast after Katrina hit. "I'm a God damn survivor, a soldier. -Not a day dreaming hippie! What is happening to me?" He thought to himself. All day long he was experiencing this strange, gnawing feeling of deja vu and an ever increasing wave of nostalgia. A vague longing for times he was sure never even happened. Well, at least not to him.

Photo copyright 2015 Gary Miller

“I am from my Mother’s womb”

Kurtis Thompson

I am from my Mother’s womb

Right now I have an umbilical hernia

I am from Union 36 Elementary School

My stepfather’s cousin burnt it down   

when I was in fourth grade

I am from my grandparent’s farm

They are both gone and, we, as a family,

sold all the memories

I am from my Dad,

but I only saw him on my sister’s birthdays

and Christmas

I am from Elsewhere,

and that could explain a few things

My landlady called me on the phone last night even though she only lives downstairs. She wanted me to look out the window of my furnished room. The moon was orange and she wanted me to see it. We hung up and I saw that it was orange just like she said it was. I thought of calling my old girlfriend. Remember Dear, how we used to look at the orange moon together- is what I would have said. But I didn’t call. When she and I first fell in love we used to talk every night about the moon. I was still in Texas, and she was in Vermont. We liked the idea that we could look up at the same time and see the same moon even though we were thousands of miles apart. Our love traveled safely in its orbit and it became the center point of our imagination. We imagined how our love was as true as the moon is true and that we were meant to be. And last night when I looked up at the orange moon of course I thought of her. Only now she’s less than forty blocks away. I could have almost reached out and touched her. We used to be so perfect, before we lived together. It was the closeness that ruined us. Orange had become my favorite color. It was the color of change, of zest, of her pubic hair. It made me laugh. It made me whole. Orange was the color of sunsets, of her toe-nail polish. Orange was the color of the dream I rode all the way from Texas to Vermont.

When I first arrived she and I sat on her back-stoop after a fine dinner of vegetables she had grown from her garden and tears ran uncontrollably down my face. I was laughing so hard I couldn’t talk, all I could say was Orange, orange, orange, over and over, with the intent of making a statement of incredible importance, but all I could say was orange. In looking back, orange is all there was to say, it said it all. I was awash in orange and orange was all that mattered. Our love was an orange moon. It was anything we wanted it to be. Our options were as big as the sky.

But after a few years the routine of living together began to take its toll. After dinner we found ourselves scanning the night sky for the signs of the zodiac, connecting the dots like one more chore, rather than feeling enthralled with the infinite possibility of what it all could mean, and what our love could mean. Even the sex I was once so crazy about had become as common and routine as breakfast. And one night after working too hard and arguing too much the moon lost all its meaning, it looked pale and old and stupid just like the rock that it was. And the next thing you know I’m in a furnished room and the landlady is reminding me to look up, look up at the moon, it’s orange.

Looking up I am reminded of what it’s like to start anew. I remember how easy it happens, how open and connected and true it all feels. I remember the feeling of infinite possibilities.

Spring is finally here. The moon is full, and orange, and I do feel lucky. I can feel the change in the air. I can feel the sky above Church Street has lost its limits, the zodiac signs have disappeared. Yes, the night is ablaze with infinite possibilities. I am orange tonight and so are you. 

A dozen black birds swoop up into the sky as I gaze upwards at the clouds

Upon disembarking from my trusty old Ford Focus at Woodridge Rehab.

The air is cool, and sprinkled with rain drops during this chilly April.

The sudden movement of the flock makes me stop in awe at the beauty

And serenity of the scene, where the fluttering wings momentarily persist.

The sound dissipates as the birds move beyond the nearby building.

From within, through a large bay window, a friend witnesses

The awesome activity of the flock in flight from the nearby stark tree branches.

To observe and be observed is miraculous this fine Spring day in April!

Ever present as well are a shower of snow flakes - not an uncommon sight.

Soon, tiny mint leaves will appear as buds and then eventually be transformed.

The birds had so recently perched on the tree before departing in haste.

The symmetry of the motion of the group appears effortless yet beautiful –

A natural event that occurs with a nonchalance to be appreciated by all!

In there

inside the elbow

I see

the old woman

the wrinkled skin

loose & sagging.

Out there 

in the outstretched arm

I see

the young woman

full of vitality strength

and courage.

Between the two

is me.

Sitting here shackled feeling less than a man

My heart's been broken since that day you up and ran

Helpless and hopelessly in tears

While locked in a cage

Wounded and scared yet these eyes flash this fiery rage

Chorus:

Girl you cut my wrist that day you lied

Girl I thought we were forever side by side

Girl my end of the world was when my love was denied

Girl would you cry if I took one last breath and died

Crazy and wild times like Bonnie and Clyde

The current of drugs changed us

Like the turn of the ocean tide

Like a pack of wolves we howled at the full moon

Awake into the night and asleep into the afternoon

Tripping and stumbling in this fog of fear

Lost and blind I feel chills of death whispering in my ear.

Chorus:

Girl you cut my wrist that day you lied

Girl I thought we were forever side by side

Girl my end of the world was when my love was denied

Girl would you cry if I took one last breath and died

On my bunk sneaking a smoke before the guard makes a round

Criminal behavior it’s called

Here they come sniffing like that old blood hound

Every moment is spent thinking missing you

Emotions are driving me mad

Tell me what I should do

Life without you is pointless there are no other options

Wandering through a crowd of messy concoctions

Chorus x2:

Girl you cut my wrist that day you lied

Girl I thought we were forever side by side

Girl my end of the world was when my love was denied

Girl would you cry if I took one last breath and died

When time is up and all has come to an end

Come home to me let our life rest

While all else is on the mend

Chorus:

Girl you cut my wrist that day you lied

Girl I thought we were forever side by side

Girl my end of the world was when my love was denied

Girl would you cry if I took one last breath and died

Girl would you cry if I took one last breath and died

What I have recovered

about myself

is my sense of me

I’ve realized

I’m no longer a mouse

but I’m a person, a woman

What I have discovered

about myself

is my sense of belonging

I’ve felt

closer to people

my friends, my family

and strangers sometimes

What I’ve uncovered

about myself

is my sense of stability

I’ve stood

My feet and legs are strong

My head is held high

My smile is wide

What I have recovered

discovered

uncovered

is me!

The fact was that all that warm weather and sunshine was making her feel just awful. She thrived in the misery of frozen ground and snow—not least because she made her best living plowing and sanding driveways. Mowing lawns wouldn’t be quite as profitable, but that was not the point.

Because the fact was that she was only satisfied when she was cold and miserable and complaining to anyone who would listen. With the sun and warmth would come beauty and sweet smells and new life. Who could possibly endure that? Not she. But her saving grace was that she would now, as awful as she felt, have something new to complain about. It was all good.

I had never heard metal crash against metal so cruelly so constantly until I came to prison. Steel doors opening and closing,
opening and closing giving ears no rest.
Like sledge hammers hitting a steel bar echoing bringing me to this dark, ugly place.
This empty useless place of delusion.
Darker even than the darkest night because I’m stuck, denied, forgotten uselessly looking through Prison Screen windows at high fences decorated with barbed wire in clever circular swirls crowned with perfectly placed razors that hunger to cut and drain my blood if I dare to challenge them.
So for what good is it?
What good am I here?
When one day struggles to follow another to endless timeless routines that take me no where. Lost in captivity.
And what do I do with this?
With this life that I have brought here?
Is there something in my soul that’s Redeemable? Restorable? Remarkable?
Do I have worth? Can I believe again?
Do I have a desire to believe? And by believing find hope? What is this hope that I seek?
If I will be but kind to myself. Will I find hope? And what will this hope give me? If I test it and try it, will I have found faith? And having found faith will I be able to rebuild myself?
I read: “Ask and ye shall receive; seek and ye shall find; knock and it shall be opened unto you.”
A promise of hope to my lost and needy soul. Surely I can become a miracle of hope if I would but follow the Light and Voice that told me to Ask, Seek, Knock. Will this surely bring me hope?
“I can do all things through Christ which strengthen me.” And with each step. I will build hope up. I will prove that there is more to me than dust and ash. Hope will be my companion that will strengthen and guide me. What was lost will be found. What was dead, will have new life. For Hope will be my banner, my sword, my shield and I will now meet all things in my day with Hope

Peep...peep...peep

Awareness of sound

spring peepers

turn my obsessive thoughts

out

into the fresh air.

Breathe deep

release worry, tension and woe fresh air in 

with in breath

out 

with out breath.

Peepers

Refresh the spirit.

Quiet allows awareness

Something other then

internal turmoil,

Something spiritual...

Presence.

Remember when you were very young lying alone in a field or park and the clouds overhead some how resonated in an idle sort of way with images and stories deep within your soul? Of course it was silly, but it still mattered, and mattered deeply. Writing for recovery is connecting with that very important silliness. Before we learned how not to be, it never occurred to us that we weren’t wonderful. Writing for recovery gives us play and gives us heart. It suspends in midair the possibility of what might happen next. This unleashing of uncertainty moves us across the high-wire where balance only comes from moving the story along. One word followed by the next we move our wonderful life forward while the crowd looks on in awe, and balance comes not by looking down or back, but from imagining where you’re going next. Writing for recovery is recovering your balance. It is moving your life forward, one imagined word at a time. 

You fit my hand like

A tailored glove, made

For me by the Java Kings

Of old.

You take from me my past

And keep me rooted in the

Present with just a hint of

Future tidings

Holding you brings out

The joy of fresh awakenings

Like lying down on

Clothesline dried sheets

In you I see myself as

I am not as I was.

Putting my lips on your

Contoured edge I begin

The journey into the

Here & now.

Almost instantly the stains

From yesterday are

Dyed into the fabric of

Today’s expressions,

Keeping me alert to

All the possibilities.

The wind chants a tune

I used to know

It passes through my ear

An echo of the past

A memory is glanced

A child giggling imagination

The magical moment

The dirt that was

remains underfoot

in remembrance

One single red rose

Mourn the yesterday

Cradle the tomorrow

Live the today

The wind chants a tune

I love to hear

Out in the back yard,

the gang and I would

kneel down over some

Of the creepy crawlies—

insects and lizards.

Very quietly, making sure

not to spook the creatures

we’d pretend we were

the ruling kings watching

over our peasants. Or

other times we were

benevolent giants who

protected that particular

ant pile.

As I got older and

looked back on those

games, I’d imagine

us as those oblivious

worker ants.

Then I wondered if they

ever played our game

with even tinier creatures.

Oh how I love the way you walk through yards and down the street,

as though you and you alone

can rise above the boundaries we hold so secret to all others.

But of course you can, you bring us presents, or at least

the possibility of them, a Santa of sorts,

a missionary of hope,

a broadcaster of weather,

an explorer of worlds beyond this block.

I trust you,

I greet you,

I believe in you.

You remind me of life.

It’s red, sometimes too hard, sometimes too soft

I like it on salad, bread and ham

Sometimes they’re yellow, bright like the sun

At other times they’re red as a big, red ball or like Rudolph’s nose.

I like to cook with tomatoes perhaps a little sautéed with onions

Many people will call a loved one their little tomato, but I tend to think of it more as a food than a friend

Some people can make sauce from scratch with the tomato, but not me, I prefer to buy it in the can

Looking forward to summer when I can grow some for myself, it turns out ok, cherry or grape

 Hanging from the upside downs are a beautiful sight of summer

The tomato; vegetable, loved one, a comfort, diced or sliced or fried up in a pan

The tomato; best invention of God and man!

When I was a child, there was this game we used to play.

All of us would pick the animal we wanted to be. My cousin Danny was always a tiger, my brother Chuck a bear, my friends Gary, Jason, Julie, and Jen were badger, bobcat, eagle, and koala, and I was always a black panther.

We would climb trees and lay on the branches baking in the sun or shade, creating habitats and waging battles with sticks, black walnuts, and any other form of weaponry on hand.

The last time I remember playing we were throwing the end-of-the-season vegetables form our garden and my cousin tried to stand up and throw a rotting cucumber. As he pulled his arm back, there was a loud crack and the branch he was on snapped. He and it hit the ground with another crack, which happened to be his arm. Life is a jungle!

I am from Ritts Park, alone, on a summer day, eating a P&J from my Hopalong Cassidy lunch box, listening to the summer birds.

 I am from the smells of the steel industry and the sounds of trains in the distance, bringing new materials in and carrying away the future of my town.

 I am from the appearance of a happy little boy who was never not terrified of the future.

I am a 5-year old boy who took the hand of his younger sister and ran away from home, always asking an adult to walk us across the street, until Dad caught us as we reached the other side of town.

 I am a small boy who grew to be a middle-aged man before he stopped running, looked around, looked inside, and realized there was nothing more to be afraid of.

 I no longer feel where I am from, but I see with confidence where I am going.